


Wishful Thinking

by meghansocks



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Awkward Flirting, Cold, Cold Sweats, Cold Weather, College, Comedy, Confessions, Conflict, Crime, DNF, Depression, DreamSMP - Freeform, Dreams and Nightmares, Drunken Flirting, Flirting, Florida, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Flustered, Flustered GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Gay, Georgewastaken, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ Character, Lust, M/M, Masks, Mild Language, Mild Smut, Minecraft, Mystery, Romance, Secrets, Separations, Sexual Tension, Short, Slow Burn, Texting, UK - Freeform, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, clay/dream - Freeform, dreamnotfound, georgenotfound - Freeform, hot dreams are my kink, two stupid idiots in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:53:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28857651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meghansocks/pseuds/meghansocks
Summary: When a masked man and fractured individual, swimming in bitter loneliness, grow fond of each other, they struggle to keep their deep-rooted issues out of their newfound relationship.--Is it sweet romance or is it just wishful thinking?
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not reupload this story on any other platform or blatantly rip it off. (I have this story posted on Wattpad as well for those who cannot easily access this website). On a side note, I am always open to constructive criticism and will happily take them into consideration.
> 
> *If dream/George or anyone is upset with my work being on the internet I will delete it. I do not want anyone to feel uncomfortable.*

PROLOGUE-

The deafening music from the party travels in waves, stretching far enough to reach the coat closet Clay has fortunately stumbled upon. It bounces off the plaster walls and into the depths of his brain, clouding his mind. He mumbles his words, and trapped behind the mask- they turn into slurred thoughts, echoing as he struggles to regain his balance.

George rushes towards him as Clay's figure begins to fall limp. He hoists him up and slinks him against a wall, his back accidentally unhooking a coat. It drops to his feet with a soft thud. His hands grasp Clay's shoulders firmly and Clay glances up at him with tear-stained eyes. The facade is becoming too much to handle, and as the emotionless mask stares back at George, he lets out a soft groan, muddled with pain and longing. His body trembles.

Clay's hand reaches and gently brushes George's cheek, and even though his gloves, George's skin burns through the fabric, spreading warmth from his fingertips and throughout his body, his veins lined with lust and desire. His emotions consume him and his hand falls to George's waist.

"I know you're scared... you have every right to be," George whispers softly.  
"And I know I was an idiot, but I'm not going to stand here and pretend like there's nothing between us."  
"You really want to do this?..."  
"You're the one with your hand around my waist, idiot." Clay tilts his head down at his arm slung around George's thin figure, his fingers digging into the fabric of his tousled shirt.

"Oh c'mon now..."  
"Oh c'mon what?" George retorts. Clay sniffles and tilts his head back up at George.

The dim lighting in the room casts shadows over George's face, though a faint glow peeking from behind the door illuminates his eyes. They glaze over with worry and sympathy. Clay's neck and back are slick with perspiration and he fights off the tight and knotted feeling in the pit of his stomach. An unexpected surge of emotions floods his senses as George's hand creeps up his body, neck, and face, letting his hand get lost in his dishevelled hair. His breath is hot.

"I want to know who you really are... I know there's so much more than a scared man behind a mask." George slowly but surely places his hand on Clay's mask, his fingers tracing the edges softly.

"Let me see you, the real you."

Clay hesitates before pulling George's small frame closer to his chest, his heartbeat pounding harder with each gentle stroke of George's touch. George feels around for a clasp and when his finger comes in contact with it he locks eyes with Clay.

"Let me see you, Clay."

click...


	2. Cold Sweats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George struggles to start the day when he spots a strange boy on a bench, gravely underdressed for the frigid weather outside.

COLD SWEATS-

The rays of early morning sun creep their way into George's bedroom, scurrying across his floorboards, up to his bed, and dance on the tip of his nose.

His alarm sounds and his hands fumble with his phone as he attempts to press snooze with his eyelids glued shut. He pushes himself up in his bed and his eyes flutter open. Even with the minuscule amount of sun peeping through his window, he shields his face from his blinds and rubs his puffy eyes. The air in his bedroom is stale and tasteless, dryly swaying the rim of his pyjama bottoms as he sluggishly climbs out of bed.

Life outside his window is cold, and dark clouds dim the skyline, robbing it of its natural brightness. Though, the sky is rarely bright and colourful in the UK nowadays. George shuffles over to the kitchen, flickering the light switch on. His kitchen hums and he starts up his coffee machine.

The lack of a heater in his dorm forces George to wear heavy jumpers at all times that weigh him down as he straightens his back and stretches his sore muscles. He peels off his sweatshirt that sticks to his skin from the sickly and unpleasant sweat that had formed from cold sweats last night, driven rancid from his nightmares.

Raspily humming to himself, he slides a coffee mug onto his frigid tabletop that's cold to the touch, sending a shiver down his spine as he scratches the back of his neck. His cabinets echo in the emptiness and ample space that is his dorm room as he closes them.

Alone and meaningless. Two words that can describe both himself and the path his life has taken since he's finished high school and moved away to college. Life is futile and depression is sour.

George snatches a spoon from the utensils drawer and plops a sugar cube into his mug, watching as the particles dissolve and sink to the bottom. He sits himself on a stool and lowers his face into his hands as the steam for his coffee graces his skin.

College hasn't been treating him well, and as his grades begin to slip, so is his sanity. It's been harder to concentrate and everything has seemingly begun to tick him off, with no reasoning whatsoever. He stares out his window into the courtyard of the college grounds and watches as the sun continues to rise, only to be partially covered by dark clouds.

His eyes wander and he spots someone sprawled on a bench, near the oak tree George occasionally studies at if the weather is decent. He runs his hand over his face and squints at the person. No one else wanders the grounds and only the boy sits there, staring up at the sky.

He sat alone, no book, no phone, no nothing, except for a wrinkled bag under his feet, just blankly gazing at the clouds. The weather is shitty, so why would he be admiring the sky?

George rips his gaze away from the boy and gently places his mug in the sink to not chip the ceramic.

As he brushes his teeth he moves around his dorm, collecting trash from the night before and snatching his coat from his closet. He takes another glance at the boy as he passes the window. He's still in the same position and George wonders if he had stayed out too long and died from hypothermia. That wouldn't be good.

He steps into his shoes and wraps a knit scarf around his neck that his sister had made for him last Christmas. Some threads stuck out and the colour is slowly beginning to fade from constant use as it is the only scarf he owns, though it is still a functional scarf. Besides, George is too lazy to go out to purchase another.

He adjusts his watch and takes one more good look at the boy before swinging open the door of his dorm.

—

Cold air nips at George's face and his cheeks flush pink as he skips down the stairs on the way to his first lecture. Although computer science and programming are what motivated him to even attend college, he kept finding himself bored and lost when taking notes, doing homework or even talking to his small array of acquaintances. As he rushes past the oak tree he catches sight of the boy in his peripheral, though walks right past him. As he steps onto another flight of stairs he looks back only to lock eyes with the boy.

George hesitates, skimming through his thoughts. He calculates the pros and cons of waking up to a person he's never met before, as he's embarrassed himself in a situation such as this before. On one hand, he'd embarrass himself but the guy would be kind about it, as he didn't seem threatening. Though he can also be an ass about it and instil a dreadful cringe that would play in his head all day like a broken record.

Before he knows it, he retracts his foot and turns his body around. He makes his way over to the boy and stands in front of him awkwardly. He toys with the cuff of his sweater.

"I'm George," he stumbles out.  
"I'm Clay," the boy responds.


	3. masked conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George discovers he shares a lecture with Clay and grabs a harmless cup of coffee with him.

MASKED CONVERSATIONS-

George looks down at the boy and Clay stares right back up at him with no hint of nervousness that George seems to be radiating at all times. His nonchalant demeanour stresses George out as he stares in silence. Clay sniffles and tilts his head, looking George up and down. His eyes travel slowly across his body, making George squirm.

He searches Clay's face and realizes his eyes are red and swollen. Dried, frosted tears cling to his long eyelashes that threaten to keep his eyelids glued together. Despite him looking like a tired wreck, George ignores it as he assumes it's from being out in the cold too long.

"How long have you been out here?" George wonders out loud.  
"How long have you been out here?" Clay replies almost drunkenly. George looks at him with confusion, unsure if he's mocking him or not.

"I'm not sure," Clay responds bluntly. He wipes his eyes with the sleeves of his sweater and blinks back the cold. He sniffles for a second time. Clay's face, despite being pink from the chilly weather is pale and spotted with dark freckles that scatter around his eyes. His iris's shine a hazel-green that glazes over with tears that have now stained his cheeks. His forehead glistens with hot sweat that his dirty blond matted hair sticks flattened onto. He's a mess.

"You alright man? Do you have a class to get to?"  
"Yeah, I'm just admiring the weather before I head on over there."

George stutters and furrows his brows as he tucks his coat tighter around his chest. He doubts Clay is admiring the frigid and dark, dingy weather but he puts it behind him, realizing he probably doesn't want to talk about his feelings to a complete and utter stranger.

"Alright... I'll see you around then, maybe?" George mumbles. Clay nods and waves him off, leaving him confused and alone to walk to his lecture.

-

The room is dull and a suffocating silence sweeps over the area. Only the faint clicking of people's keyboards and stifled coughs inhabit the space. George takes his seat at the back of the lecture room and pulls out his laptop. Booting it to life, he notices a certain figure emerge from the entrance doors. Turns out the guy shares programming classes with him.

George takes in his dishevelled appearance and watches as he takes off his coat. The corner of his sweater lifts, exposing the skin of his stomach and Clay looks up, their eyes meeting. George snaps his head away and averts his gaze quickly, almost giving himself whiplash. He mouths the words 'ouch' and rubs the back of his neck. His face flushes from embarrassment and he pretends to stretch his muscles as a pitiful diversion. 

His fingers stumble over the keys of his laptop as he attempts to lock in his password, but the burning sensation of eyes on him prevents him from thinking straight. He wills himself not to look at the guy and concentrate on his work.

Clay however finds himself studying George's appearance. His dark hair is kept short but tousled at the front, and the collared shirt under his sweater is unbuttoned and tucked in incorrectly, almost rushed. His dark brown eyes stare fixed on his screen, and his eyebrows furrow in concentration. Clay's gaze returns to his bag and he too pulls out his laptop.

-

Near the end of the class George finally allows himself to glance at Clay and notices vivid confusion etched into his features. He stares inconspicuously and traces his spacebar with his finger as he attempts to concentrate on the words of his professor. George hasn't seen many new faces around campus recently and hopes Clay isn't as boring and dry as the others he's come across. He spaces out for a moment or two before returning to reality at the clap of his professor's hands. The noise startles George and the clap echoes throughout the room. He follows suit as everyone in the lecture packs up their bags and springs from their seats. 

George skips down the steps and doges swinging arms and bags, his eyes searching the room for a certain individual. He makes his way out of the class and stands on his tip-toes to try and spot Clay, to no avail. He seems to have already disappeared into the crowd of swarming bodies. As George's heels come in contact with the floor again a gentle hand on his shoulder startles him.

"Are you looking for someone?"  
George's eyes widen and he gawks at Clay. When he had first talked to him he was sitting down, sprawled on a bench. Though now as Clay stands in front of him, he realizes the sizable height difference.  
"No one in particular," he smiles, tight-lipped.

"I uh, I've got to get back to my dorm, I've got a lot of work."  
"We're in the same class, we didn't get any work," Clay responds quizzically. George stumbles on his words.

"Right... I knew that." he stares blankly at him and Clay shakes the confusion away.  
"Anyways, I was wondering if you got today's lesson. I'm a bit lost."

George nods stupidly.  
"It's the middle of the year so I think I'm gonna get shit grades but do you think you could help me with it?"

George hesitates, then gives him a gentle "yes," and he looks down at his watch to check the time.  
"I'm going to grab a coffee, you're welcome to tag along," Clay offers.  
"Maybe we can study together sometime? Please don't feel pressured though. It's just hard to make connections when you're new."

"Yeah, I'd like that. To grab a coffee I mean, and study if you want."  
Clay exhales quickly, a singular chuckle escaping his lips at George's apparent nervousness. They exit the lecture hall and icy air hits George's face with force. He squints through the cold and uses his hand to cover his eyes as they begin to water from the freezing wind.

-

"Milk two sugar," George tells the waitress.  
"And you?" she gestures to Clay.  
"Black," he smiles and looks over at George. The waitress walks away and George rips up the corners of a neatly folded napkin.

"I'm curious.." George mumbles.  
"Hmm?"  
"You don't have an accent, where are you from?"

"Florida, I moved here recently."  
"Do you mind me asking why?"  
Clay shifts in his seat and the soft cafe music adds to the ambiance. He stares at the table and traces slow circles, his gaze wandering.

"To have a fresh start, and to get away from my parents," he tells George.  
"Why leave your family?" George inquires.  
"Umm," he chuckles slightly.  
"That's a story for another time."

George doesn't push him any further and lets the conversation shift off into a different path. The waitress returns and George thanks her as she sets down their coffee mugs. She doesn't acknowledge George but instead winks at Clay.

Clay smiles back politely yet awkwardly, and brings his mug up to his face, seeming to hide behind it.

"What about you?" Clay nods his head at George and sets his mug down.  
"I've lived here my entire life, it's pretty boring."  
"It doesn't seem boring around here."  
"Stay here for too long and it will."

"Oh, shit, okay," Clay laughs nervously and George clamps a hand over his mouth.  
"That sounded bad and threatening out of context. I'm so sorry," George laughs.

"Don't apologize," Clay insists. George runs a hand over his face. His shitty mood is interfering with the conversation. George takes a sip of his coffee.

The two talk a little longer than an hour before their second round of coffee is depleted. George stares down into his mug and inspects the few particles of crushed coffee beans. He has essentially shared a quarter of his life story, though Clay seemed hesitant about sharing anything personal. Had George shared too much? Had he scared him away already?

The stress builds up in his mind, forming a thin cloud of unnecessary worry. He had a habit of overthinking. The clock ticks towards the closing of the café and George yawns. He hadn't slept well last night and the tiredness is slowly creeping up on him.

They sit in awkward silence for a few moments and George counts as the seconds pass by. Clay continues to trace shapes onto the table with his forefinger. George watches intently.

"So about studying?" Clay prompts abruptly. George glances up at him.  
"The library is closed," George pauses.  
"Though we can go back to my place if you want?"  
Clay hesitates.  
"You sure?"  
"Yeah, I mean, I have nothing better to do."

Clay bites his bottom lip and George can almost see the gears turning in his head.  
"Yeah, okay."


	4. Dreadful Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George confronts Clay about the bench incident which occurred that morning and George has his first of many dreams to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part of the story does entail slight smut but it isn't anything vulgar as I'd feel uncomfortable writing it. If that kind of stuff makes you uneasy, I suggest you don't read. Thank you.

DREADFUL DREAMS-

"Sorry about this, I cleaned up a bit before I left but it's still a mess."  
"No worries, my dorm isn't any better in all honestly."

George points a lazy finger towards his small couch and Clay drops his bag down atop it. He shoves his hands in his pockets and sways back and forth slightly, shifting his weight between his two feet.

"Also, sorry, it's a bit cold in here, you might want to keep your sweater on." George swings his closet door open and slips a second sweater over his current one. Clay eyes him curiously.

"I figure you don't mind the cold though. Do you want anything to drink?"  
"What?" Clay inquires. He sits himself down on an ottoman and inspects a framed photo placed on George's nightstand.  
"And yes, water is fine."

"This morning, you were just sitting out in the cold. You didn't even have a jacket on you. What was that about anyway?" George pours two glasses and sticks the water jug back in the fridge. As he closes the door his hand gets stuck in the handle and he wriggles his wrist out of it. He bites down on his tongue, hoping Clay didn't see it.

"Oh, I just really needed fresh air, y'know. I was admiring the weather."

Is he playing with George?

George hands him the tall glass of water and opens his mouth to question him further but a gut feeling pulls the words out of his mouth. His breath hitches. He's not known this guy very long and isn't about to take on the role of his therapist like he always seems to do. He figures he'd scare him off before he really got to know him.

"Can you tell me anything about yourself?"  
Clay chuckles and scratches the stubble on his jaw. He tilts his head to the side.  
"Well...I actually don't like the cold, I'm from Florida."  
"You've mentioned already," George's lips curl into a smile, and he sits down on the corner of his bed.

"And...I play a lot of video games, by myself and with other people. I'm actually quite good at them," he states smugly.

"That wasn't what I was expecting when I asked about you personally."  
"ThAt WaSnt WhAT I WaS ExPeCTinG," Clay mocks.  
"What were you expecting then?"

George shrugs, brushing off his first question.  
"You said you play a lot of video games but for someone as mysterious as you, I didn't expect you to be so open and carefree on the internet."

"Who said I'm carefree on the internet."  
George pauses.  
"I actually go by a different name online."  
"And what's that?"  
"Dream," Clay uses his hands to emphasize his words. He says it proudly and with confidence. George fights back a smile and he shields his mouth with a hand, attempting not to laugh. He wonders why Clay had chosen such an odd name.

"George!"  
"Clay?"  
"Don't make fun of it."  
"I'm not..."  
"Oh really?"  
"Yes. What gave you the impression that I found it funny?"  
"Oh, maybe the way you're smiling behind your hand. I can see you, you idiot."

George's hidden smile moulds into a widely visible grin and he laughs. Clay chuckles in admiration. George's laughter dies down as a sudden spark goes off in his brain, washing up a distant memory hidden in the back of his mind, and pushing it ashore. He tilts his head at Clay and his eyebrows raise.

"Wait, Dream?"  
"Yeah what about it?"  
"Dream... that sounds oddly familiar... you wouldn't happen to remember a GeorgeNotFound would you?"  
"Can't place a finger on it," Clay replies.  
"Never mind, you wouldn't remember. It was a while ago and you're too high up on the leaderboard." George pushes the memory aside, and Clay gives him an odd yet amused look.

They've definitely chatted online before, surely.

"You think I'm mysterious?" Clay asks in a lower tone. George's words get stuck in his throat.  
"Pardon me?" The question is abrupt and catches him off guard. He grips his glass of water and narrows his eyes at Clay.

"You said earlier you think I'm mysterious."  
"Well, you won't tell me anything about you, Clay..."  
"I like the way you say my name." He chuckles softly and takes a slow swig of his water, his eyes not leaving George's. His gaze is piercing and almost seductive.

Heat rises in George's chest as the water runs down his throat, burning as if he were drinking straight vodka.  
"What do you suppose I say instead of mysterious?" he asks quietly.

"Call me anything you'd like," Clay tells him.  
"Oh," is all George can utter.

George loosens his grip on his cup, worried that if he squeezes it any more it will shatter in his hands and crash onto the floor. He clears his throat, running a sweaty hand through his hair and adjusting the collar of his shirt. George's dorm is cold but the dense air around them seems to thin and grow warm, a mass of heat blooming in George's chest and expanding into the open space. Clay breaks his gaze, ending their strange staring contest and they both clear their throats. 

They talk for some time longer in the tension-filled room and wholly forget about studying. Their bags and laptops sit unneeded and untouched on the edge of the couch as they continue to pass the time with stupid jokes and witty banter. George checks his watch and Clay peers at George's wrist, his eyes squint at the tiny hands on the clock.

"It's been fun, but I think I'd better be going. It's pretty late." Clay stands up and George reciprocates his movements, springing up a little too fast. His blood pressure drops and his brain goes all fuzzy. He feels light-headed and dizziness blurs his vision.

"You okay?" Clay asks as George's knees begin to buckle.  
"Yeah, just head rush."

Clay slings his arms around George's waist to prevent him from falling, and their eyes meet, Clay locking their gaze, and George too scared to look away. The hairs on George's arms stand up and goosebumps spread across his skin, prickling his senses. The heat that rose in his chest only a moment ago flows like sweet, hot honey throughout his body. George stills.

"Thanks," George mumbles as he starts to regain his balance.  
"Don't mention it." Clay lets go of George's waist and he scratches the nape of his neck. Both of them make their way over to the door and George takes another sip of his water to cool his burning body, before placing the cup on his counter shakily.

"We should do this again some other time if you'd like."  
George stares back, speechless for a moment before coughing out his words.  
"Yeah, soon"

Clay takes one more look at George before closing the door behind him and George stands there, still stunned and confused. Clay seems unfazed and unbothered, while all George is feeling is flustered. No, he tells himself, not flustered. He doesn't really know how to feel in all honesty.

-

Pulling off the multiple layers of sweaters on his body, he traces his hand over his bare waist where Clay had wrapped his hands around. It feels like his touch should have left a mark as it still burns, even as he tosses and turns in bed, struggling to fall asleep. His mind fights off the unwanted thoughts that threaten to keep him awake and he shuts his eyes.

-

The room is a hazy blue and the air feels thick, their voices travelling like molasses in the atmosphere. George sinks into the corner of a bed. Not his bed, but a bed, watching as Clay's figure moves towards him. Clay stares up at him with a lopsided grin and gently tilts Georges's chin up, sliding his thumb over his lips. Slowly, he leans down and his face stills an inch away from George's. His breath is hot and fiery emotions intensify with each inhale and exhale.

"May I?"

George nods slowly, his eyes fluttering closed. He breathes the scent of him in and bites his lips as Clay's breath tickles his cheek.  
His lips gently trail up George's neck and jaw, leaving hot red bruises along his skin. His lips halt at George's ear and Clay runs a hand through his hair, grabbing a fistful of George's sweater. With force, their bodies flush together and the space between them becomes nonexistent.

Clay slides his hand under George's sweater and George trembles.

"Do you like that?" Clay breathes out. George nods ever so slightly.  
"Words, George."  
"Yes," George croaks, his voice raspy and uneven.

Their bodies fall onto the bed and pinning his arms down, Clay climbs on top of George. He brings his lips close to George's and they brush together gently. Clay leans back slightly.

"Don't tease me," George demands. Clay licks his lips and gazes down at him.  
"Yes sir."

Their lips lock almost immediately and a raging fire grows in George's chest, addictively invading all his senses. He willingly allows them in. With each dragged out motion of their mouths, they melt into each other, molten lava licking scratches on their skin and backs.

Clay's hand snakes up George's sweater and the other around his waist, pulling the fabric over his head. His lips kiss the corner of George's mouth, jawline and chest, eliciting George's arousal.

Just as Clay's slender fingers firmly grasp George's belt, his mind knocks him out of his dream and desires. He jolts up in his bed, his breath irregular and shaky. His entire body trembles, somehow still feeling Clay's invisible touch all over his body. Everything burns.

He rips his shirt off and tosses it into the corner of his room. He is drenched head to toe in sweat, and he places a hand on his chest, focussing on slowing down his rapid breathing. His eyes flicker with immense disappointment in himself.

He can't do this to himself, not again...

The worst thing is he liked it. He wanted to be touched, he wanted to know what happened after Clay's hand fell to his belt. He wanted to know how good he tasted, how he-

He cuts his thought short. He's not sure if being lonely and touch-deprived for most of his life had led him to this fatuous moment, but he digs a hole deep into his mind, dumping the dream into the pit. He covers it up and wipes his hands free of it. This is embarrassing he tells himself. He's not even known this guy for very long.


	5. Escapades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George and Clay get drunk and take a midnight adventure to the computer lab on the opposite side of campus.

ESCAPADES-

The choir of songbirds that had perched themselves outside George's window not long ago have disappeared as the days grow colder. Their sweet melodies have fallen into an unbearable silence that George numbly wakes up to every day. A couple of weeks or so has passed and he and Clay have begun to spend increased time together, quickly becoming one of George's only sources of serotonin.

Clay was George's constant, and George was Clay's something to hold on to.

Despite Clay's secretive manner, he somehow still manages to give George enough to make him stay. Though, George has begun to mindlessly ignore Clay's kept and reserved demeanour. Although it is slightly irksome, he tries to not let it bother him anymore. He figures Clay will finally open up when he cares enough to. The thought of that should irritate George, but somehow it doesn't.

Their twat of a professor had given them a new assignment to which George and Clay have pushed to the side for a while, deciding their time to be better spent on things of more importance. They lay on George's small couch, watching as the sun sinks out of view from George's window.

"I would say playing Minecraft makes you a giant nerd, but I'd be dissing myself in the process," George comments as he brings a bottle of beer to his lips. He scrunches his face in mild disgust as he downs the alcohol. The odd taste turns his stomach.

"I don't even really like beer, why am I drinking this?"  
"Because I don't want to get drunk by myself," Clay answers for him. Clay downs the rest of the liquid in his own bottle and places it on George's side table.  
"Right." George holds the beer by his chest, making it obvious he doesn't want to finish it.  
"You gonna drink that?" Clay laughs and George wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.  
"Any more and I'm gonna be sick."

Clay chuckles and leans his body closer to George on the couch. The coldness of George's dorm fizzles away as the alcohol warms their bodies that are already wrapped in the thin layer of a sweater.  
"I'll have that then," Clay whispers as he snatches the bottle from George.  
"No, you don't."

Clay's lips close onto the mouth of the bottle but George's hands get a firm grip on it before he can lean his head back and take a sip.

"You're no fun, Georgie," Clay teases as George gets comfortable again. He sinks into the pillows behind his back, and his socked feet rest an inch away from Clay's on the couch.  
"And you are way too drunk to complete an assignment," George responds, unfazed by the strange nickname. He tries his best to ignore Clay's alluring gaze.

"I'm sober enough," Clay argues softly.  
"And instead of finishing an assignment, we could do something else."  
"Oh?"  
"We could play a game."  
"What game do you suppose we play?"  
"Minecraft, like the nerds you supposedly think we are."

George glares at him with amusement and Clay chuckles.  
"The computer labs are closed aren't they?" George asks. He leans his elbows on the top of the couch and rests his tilted head in his hand. 

"The one in the library is closed but the ones on the other side of campus aren't."  
"I'm way too tired to take the bus all the way over there," George complains.  
"C'mon now, It’ll be fun, a little midnight adventure? The George and Clay escapades?"

George fiddles with the beer bottle he's holding hostage from Clay.  
"I don't know, I'm pretty tired."  
"How about some more of this then..." Clay inches closer to George, their legs and elbows pressed up against each other. He stretches his fingers out and gently takes the glass from George's small hands. With their eyes locked, He tilts the mouth of the bottle to George's lips and the bitter alcohol trickles down his throat. The aftertaste of the beer is washed away with Clay's hard stare and his thumb wipes the corners of George's mouth, startling George. Neither of them moves for a moment.

"Sorry, you had..." Clay's train of thought gets lost and he points to the corner of his mouth. George shakes the tantalizing thoughts and desires away once more and forces his brain back to reality. He leans back.

"Are you trying to get me drunk? I'm not too fond of being hungover," George explains.

"C'mon George..." Clay exhales. He frowns jokingly and George gives in to Clay's wishes.  
"Okay, but I get to choose the game."

-

The windows on the bus fog over and Clay traces different shapes and a poor depiction of a cat to which George mocks. The pitch-black darkness consumes the outside world and few stars can be seen due to the immense light pollution in Brighton. The dim lighting on the bus tempts George's consciousness as he yawns in sleepiness. Clay watches as George wipes a patch of the fog away and gazes at the light posts and houses whizzing by.

It almost feels like the late-night drives in the backseat of your parent's car, when you pretend to be sleeping. You'd get carried into your house and tucked underneath your warm covers, convinced that your parents think you're asleep when in reality they obviously know you're awake. The serendipity of the thought overtakes both of them in unison.

-

The tiny computer lab is empty when they arrive and the room is fairly dark. They boot two computers up. The monitors and equipment are decently new but are still considered old tech, and a thin layer of dust has collected atop them. George blows the dust off the screen of his computer and it floats into the air. He holds his breath so as to not choke.

"What do you play?" Clay asks.  
"Bedwars, mostly solo," George responds as he logs in.  
"What about you?"  
"I like hardcore."  
"Pardon?" George chokes on the air in his throat and he attempts to hide it with a cough.  
"Hardcore Minecraft, I like the challenge. I play Bedwars as well though."

George nods, his brain still recovering from the abrupt and unnecessary shock of Clay's words.

"Bedwars it is then, you said you'd be choosing."  
"Yeah." George hopes his cover-up cough had been slick enough to fool Clay. He assumes not.  
It takes a moment to log in to their accounts and they hop into a game.

"You said like, two weeks ago that you remembered my name, Dream."  
"Yeah," George responds. He falls while speed bridging and Clay smiles as he watches the Minecraft figure drop past his frame. He was actually quite shit at the game but played regardless.

"You asked if I remembered a GeorgeNotFound."  
"Mm?"  
"I think I remember you vaguely."  
"Oh really?" George asks not really as a question. He focuses hard on the game.  
"We talked in chat in a game of Bedwars, and I think you coded for someone I coded for."  
"Now you remember," George smiles. The memory is foggy but it's still there.  
"That was a pretty long time ago."  
"Not that long ago."

"I thought you sounded cute," Clay says in a slightly hushed tone. George gulps and hates himself for feeling flustered. He dislikes Clay even more for uttering the words.

"I got Blue's bed," George responds as he attempts to brush Clay's sentence away. Clay looks up at George for a quick moment, grinning at the rising pink colour that tints his cheeks. He likes making George blush, to which George is aware of. It only angers George further.

A few moments of silence follow and Clay jitter clicks his spacebar aggressively as he takes out a member of the blue team. He bows the rest of them with ease.

You're a Bedwars sweat...? nerd," George plays. Clay smiles and leans forwards in an attempt to reach George over the large monitor, but George shoots back in his seat and giggles quietly. He reaches further and George rolls his chair back.

"Quit it," George chuckles as he shields his stomach and sides. Clay plops back down onto his seat in defeat and peeks at him through the gap between the computers. His gaze seems to say "try it."

Just as Clay's eyes return to the screen George's lips part and a quiet "sweaty" voice's itself into the tension-filled air and Clay laughs, shaking his head and biting his bottom lip. He stands up and makes his way around the table.

"Okay, I'm coming over, there," he counters back. George brings his knees to his chest in amused fear and desperation.

-

That same night, after a tiring bus ride home, George lays in bed and his mind wanders unwillingly. His brain pulls up the recent memory of them in the dimly lighted, and nearly empty bus. They had basked in the comfortable silence they had created and viewed the world through foggy UK public transport windows. The memory fades off into a hazy blue as he drifts off to sleep, awaking in a familiar yet unfamiliar room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gentle reminder to follow me on Twitter, if you want, lol. I promise I'm funny.  
> \- twitter.com/meghansocks


	6. Sober Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As depression continues to creep its way into George's consciousness, Clay attempts to take George's mind off of his troubles.

SOBER THOUGHTS-

George's recurring dream threatens to climb its way out of the depths of his mind, clawing at the gates like a feral animal. He tries his best to suppress his childish emotions, though as he sees Clay rushing over to him from beneath the oak tree, the memories come flooding back all at once and his stomach flips.

Clay pulls his hands out of the pockets of his grey sweats to wave at George. His sweater is zipped up to his neck and he moves stiffly from the cold. The last time George spotted Clay under the oak tree he was only wearing a t-shirt, so his sweater was an improvement.

"Hey."  
"Morning," George replies sluggishly. Clay scans Geroge's face. His eyes are pink and dark circles line the prominent bags under his eyes. His face seems sunken and tired, with no hints of the contagious smile Clay so desperately adores.

"You alright?"  
"Yeah I'm alright, I barely got any sleep though." George wasn't lying. After the strange dream, he fell asleep only to wake up in that hazy room once more, trapped in the made-up world his mind had conjured out of seemingly nowhere. He figured not sleeping was the easiest solution. Though, now that he thinks about it, he would have felt like shit either way. The dream had left him feeling apologetic pleasure and immense shame and guilt that still stuck to his skin no matter how hard he tried to shake it off.

"Where are you going by the way?" Clay asks. George notices he isn't carrying his bag with him and raises an eyebrow in confusion.

"To class, where's your bag?"  
"My bag? George- we don't have a lecture today."

George and Clay standstill in front of each other, both their faces conveying confusion for two entirely different reasons. George's mouth opens agape. He raises his forefinger and retracts it almost immediately, shutting his mouth as well.

"Oh."  
"Yeah."  
"You mean I got up early for nothing?"  
"Mhm."

George runs a hand through his hair and lets it sit on top of his head for a few beats. Every day has become the same recurring, boring schedule; sleep for 5 hours or less, wake up, have a coffee, stare off into space during his lecture, and go home to take part in his 30-minute session of wallowing in self-pity.

It's depressing but it's his life.

Clay's puzzled face falls into concern when George doesn't respond. He instead stares down at his shoes, his bag seeming to gain a few extra pounds. It weighs him down and the chains seep into the floor beneath him, threatening to take him with them.

"I have an idea of what we can do," Clay insists.  
"What's that?"  
"Do you trust me?"  
"Do I have a choice?"  
"That wasn't the answer I was looking for," Clay remarks.  
"Well, then yes."  
"It's out the gates of the college and on top of that hill," Clay points a slender finger north and George's eyes follow it to the area.

"What were you doing on the bench again?" George asks curiously as they begin to walk.  
"I don't know."  
George eyes him sternly, his expression seeming to say "don't fucking test me."  
"Aren't you a Curious George," Clay responds with amusement tinting his voice. His lips curl into a smile that disappears quickly.

George's gaze hardens further and Clay looks away.

"Enjoying the weather as always." He stares straight ahead, feeling George's eyes judge him.

"Enjoying the weather, sure..." George smiles slightly but Clay can taste the sour undertones to his voice clearly. It pierces through his chest like hot shame. His face falls and he kicks the gravel beneath his feet.

"Are we almost there?" George whines.  
"It's at the top of the hill," Clay repeats. He gazes over at George whose breath has become uneven and strained. Looks like someone doesn't get much physical activity.  
Clay takes long strides up the slanted grassy knoll and places his hand on the small of George's back to help push him up.

"There's nothing up here," George proclaims. He hunches over to catch his breath and places his hands on his knees. He tilts his head up at Clay and scans the area with his eyes, leaning his head back at him when he's finished looking around.

"My grandfather can do more physical activity than you," Clay breathes out, attempting to hide his laughter. George's mouth opens agape, creating an o shape, and a noise of offence escapes his lips. Clay chuckles.

"There's nothing," George repeats, the audible sound of a smile conveyed in the tone of his voice.  
"That's because you're looking at it from the wrong angle."

Clay drops onto the grass and lays flat on his back. His hands gently brush the shards of grass, and the frosted-over ground dampens the back of his sweater. George looks down at him, puzzled, tilting his head to the side. Clay laughs and pats the space beside him.

"Get down here, you dork."

George reluctantly conforms and awkwardly sits himself down on the grass. He lays his head back and his hair flops backwards.

"Now what can you see?"  
"Clouds," George responds as if it were the only logical answer. Clay shifts on the grass. It was still chilly out and the ground acts as a numbing ice pack.

"Well... I think that one looks like a cat."  
"Where?" George asks.

Clay points to the sky and George does as well, though in the wrong direction.  
"No, not there, over there, you idiot..." Clay grabs George's hand and gently pushes it left.

George pauses, unable to speak for a moment.  
"I still can't see anything."  
"Try squinting at it."  
"This is stupid I can't- I- there is no cat!" George says impatiently. Clay exhales deeply.  
"Just- Just try, okay? Try for me?"

George exhales in frustration and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. When his eyes flutter open he concentrates hard. His iris reflect the soft, dim rays of the sun, and his lips part in concentration.

"No no no, that's definitely a mouse on a skateboard," he says seriously, making Clay chuckle. He sniffs, lolling his head to the side and gazing at George.

"See? All you had to do was look hard enough."

"It's actually quite nice and... pretty," George admits.  
"Sometimes the best things in life go over our heads. Or in this case, is right over our head."

Cold wind blows across George's exposed skin and he turns his head to the side to see Clay already watching him. Their faces are close and Clay's steadying breath warms his cheek.

George's eyes trace lines on his pale skin like a map and Clay's eyes fall to George's pink lips, making his head spin. This was all too much.

A hand reaches out and tucks a strand of George's hair out of his face, that the wind had gracefully blown on to his forehead. Clay's hand hovers as the world goes silent around them.

George's breath hitches.  
Clay licks his lips.

"There's a party happening this Saturday..." Clay pauses.  
"Do you think you can come?"

"I'll have to think about it," George says softly, almost inaudible.  
"I think that means yes."

Clay turns his head away from George and back up to the sky. The cat-shaped cloud had dissolved into a blob of swirling white, and bits of sun peep through the thin patches.

Despite the chilly weather and cold seeping through the back of both of their jackets, it was nice out. Or maybe they were the ones that made it nice.


	7. Drunken Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George has another one of his recurring dreams, and he attempts to fight off internal struggles at a suffocatingly packed college party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Very important note at the end* Also there is mention of the homophobic term for a homosexual- (f word). Just want to give you a heads up.

DRUNKEN THOUGHTS-

Hazy blue envelops George's mind, fogging up his thoughts. He is plunged into a world of heat and confusion once more, and he struggles to resist the immense pleasure easing its way through his veins. It drugs him, consuming him whole and leaving nothing behind.

Clay is on top of him; George is beneath. He grips the sheets under his bare skin as Clay's hand travels across his body. George trembles beneath Clay's tensed muscles, feeling vulnerable in the best way possible.

His fingers grasp the clasps of George's belt once more, though this time the hazy blue does not melt away.

Scrambling to unbuckle it, Clay bites his lips. Anticipation and impatience smother his state of mind and they lock lips once more. With quick breaths and little to no time between arching movements, George's jeans slip off. His hands move down, down, down...

"George..." Clay mumbles into his neck. His voice is muffled and weak.

-

Icy cold air hits George's body, knocking the sense back into him. He groans and holds his head in his hands as his brain pulsates painfully. His room is pitch black with the exception of a single beam of moonlight travelling through his windowpane, and the gentle pitter-patter of the rain fills the silence.

He strips his sweater off and throws it in a random direction, not caring if it hits or knocks something down. There is far too much on his mind to worry about making a mess, as he's already dealing with a different kind of a mess. This mess involves a stupidly pretty and mysterious Floridian boy that he can't seem to get out of his head.

Slowly and carefully, not to get head rush, George gets to his feet and shuffles to his minuscule bathroom. He flickers the switch on and squints into the mirror as his eyesight adjusts to the blinding light. He turns the tap and cups his hand under the cold water, splashing his face with it to wake himself up. He wipes his face with a towel and swings it around his neck as he leans back against his wall.

Excess water drips from his chin and he lowers himself onto the floor.

"Fuck," he curses softly. His head falls and watches as the water on his chin drips onto the floor, pooling into the cracks. The walls and room around him are freezing, turning his skin raw and causing tightness throughout his body, but he doesn't care. He now understands why Clay was possibly standing out in the cold with so little clothing that day he found him on the bench. The frigidness grounds him, separating his dreams from reality, and the pleasure in his veins dissolve. He is left soaked in a cold sweat, his mind distant and muffled.

-

George checks his watch. It's a quarter to eleven and he's already running late. He peeps his head in front of his window to see Clay already waiting for him at the bench. He hastily buttons up his collared shirt and slips a blue pullover, over his head. He tightens his belt and snatches his coat and keys, jogging out his door. When he meets Clay out by the oak tree he is already out of breath.

"Hey."

"We're gonna be late, dimwit," Clay imparts. He looks George up and down before standing up and shoving his hands in his pockets. He clears his throat.

"What?" George asks. He stands ineptly, unsure of what to do when Clay looks at him like that.

"You look nice in that sweater," Clay says laid back. He doesn't hesitate with his words, making heat rise to Georges's cheeks. He attempts to hide his embarrassment with the sleeve of his pullover.

-

The entire house is dark, and luminescent blue and purple lights fill the dim atmosphere. It feels almost foggy. Clay places his hand on George's shoulder to not lose him, as they maneuver their way through the crowd of people. They find their way into the kitchen where the blaring music dies down a bit.

"How did you even get invited to this thing?" George asks, his voice is raised, competing with the music in the background. Clay moves his face closer to George in order to hear him better and he leans up against a doorframe.

"I don't really know. I found this group of guys, all hammered as fuck, and they kind of just invited me." He pauses.  
"Said they rented this place out."

Clay opens the fridge door, inspecting the drinks inside and George stares in confusion as he rummages through the top shelf.  
"Are you even allowed to do that?" George asks. Clay shrugs his shoulders and continues to explore the fridge. He takes two bottles of something he doesn't recognize and hands one to George. Clay pops the cap open with ease and wraps his lips around the mouth of the bottle while staring directly at George. His eyes gleam. George takes a sip and the liquid burns the back of his throat. He coughs.

"What is this shit?" George asks, squinting through the darkness at the bottle. Clay shrugs, his gaze still set on George.  
"I have no clue."

A bottle or two later and both Clay and George are beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. George more so than Clay. His system can't handle alcohol as well as others and doesn't take much to get him drunk. His fingertips begin to tingle, warmth weaving throughout his body.

Both of them have migrated to the opposite end of the house where the music vibrates against their skulls and moving bodies around them creates a vortex of heat. A girl from across the room winks at George and he takes another sip of his godforsaken drink. She's been eying him ever since they got there and George keeps attempting to ignore her gaze. Clay looks at her, then back at George. He clears his throat.

"I don't feel so great," George tells Clay.  
"You're drunk," Clay responds.  
"As are you, moron, how come you don't feel this sick."

They laugh and Clay's expression softens as he stares down at George. The people around them press the two closer together than they already are, and their eyes meet. Clay stares back with an expression George cannot decipher, but it makes a strange feeling swell in the pit of his stomach. Clay's chiselled face looms over him, with blue shadows cast across his features from the neon lights. He looks beautiful.

George's heart races and he tastes the sweetness on Clay's intoxicated breath. His face lowers and he angles his mouth at George's ear, his lips brushing it slightly as he pauses.

"You're really cute when you're nervous," Clay whispers, making George melt. Heat surges from his feet to his stomach and rises ahold of the boy's sleeve but he shrugs him off aggressively.

"Get off me you f*ggot."

George instantly lets go of the boy's shirt and he stands incredibly still, blinking back tears that develop immediately. The boy takes a quick look of pity at George's frozen figure, regretting his choice of words, but not apologizing.

"Don't try and talk to me at school, just, please don't..." The boy closes the door behind him and George continues to stand there for a while longer.

Confusion and emptiness plague George's thoughts and unwanted tears well up behind his eyes. He swallows hard, his throat seeming to develop a lump, and he closes his eyelids shut. He tilts his head to the ceiling as the girl continues to kiss him, her lips trailing his jaw.

"Am I doing something wrong?" she asks as she leans back a bit. George shakes his head numbly. She glances at him one last time before gently pressing her cold lips to his skin again. Her hands grab his belt buckle and she lowers to her knees. George hesitates.

"Okay, what's wrong?" She asks. George finally breaks, he takes quick steps back and runs a hand over his face. He feels like a complete asshole.

"You seem like a really nice girl." George steps back and he grabs the door handle.  
"Believe me, you did nothing wrong, It's me." 

The girl opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out, and George waits a second more for her to respond but she doesn't. He exits the room and jogs back down the stairs, tripping over his own feet. He continuously apologizes as he bumps into people, and the thundering music gets increasingly louder as he enters the main room of the party. George stands on his tip-toes, peering over people's heads, only to notice that Clay is gone. He's not entirely sure if he wants to confront Clay right now anyway.

Desperately trying to get out of the house, George crashes into more people, sandwiching himself between them and squeezing out the door frame. He collapses onto the pavement.

-

George stares blankly at the sidewalk in front of him, his brain slowing down from the exhaustion of his emotions, or what's left of them.

He's been sitting on the sidewalk for half an hour or so, occasionally receiving questioning looks to which he ignores. Usually getting stares like that would embarrass him, though his anxiety has levelled and the drainage of his emotions has left him lifeless, only feeling a quiet kind of confusion and guilt. He might have as well been a corpse thrown to the gutters.

His head is still throbbing from the deafening music and alcohol continues to course through his veins. Despite the liquor, he felt and still feels no sense of newfound confidence or giddiness that comes with being intoxicated. He figures he isn't the happy drunk type. A shame...

He fights the guilt creeping its way back into the depths of his mind and attempts to block it out with other thoughts. He thinks about the unfinished assignments he needs to tend to, but that only makes his mood drop further. He hates himself for running away like that but hates Clay even more for getting that close. Is his hate even justified? He hasn't led Clay on, has he?

If he had it most definitely wasn't on purpose. George hasn't even given Clay anything to make him assume he's interested. Or so he believes.

No matter how hard he tries he can't shake the thought of the hazy blue room, the way his body fits perfectly with Clay's despite only being only a figment of his imagination. A ghost that haunts his brain at night and accompanies him throughout the day, easing guilty pleasure and humour into his bitter mind. Clay makes him happy, but he knew from the start that nothing more than a friendship could bloom between them. He's not sure how he's supposed to confront Clay about this, or how to go about starting the conversation. He figures sleeping on it will help, but he worries where Clay has gone, and what he could be doing. He is slightly less drunk than George but is still intoxicated and alone.

He wonders if Clay had been more open and upfront about who he is, the events that have unfolded would have played out differently. All George wants to know is why Clay is so reserved and why he was on the bench that morning George found him. He thought that he was okay with not knowing much, but it pissed him off slightly knowing that Clay is purposefully hiding behind an invisible mask, shielding who he is from George.

George sits there in silence for a bit longer, pondering as the night grows colder and darker. A street lamp dimly lights a patch of pavement that George occupies, and he carefully stands up, his knees threatening to give way. He travels back to his dorm in a sad quietness that bubbles around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *IMPORTANT*  
> I'm honestly kind of afraid to continue this "story" of sorts because of all the shit happening on Twitter, and the people who bash dnf writers/ say that it's disgusting. I'm not sure why I feel the need to explain this because no one will ever read this, but I would never want dream or George to feel uncomfortable with what I am writing. They are legal adults and have said that they are okay with it. I am simply writing this for practice, because I am bored, and because I think their characters have a nice relationship, (NOT DREAM AND GEORGE AS REAL PEOPLE). If you have been reading my work, I appreciate you a ton and hope you have a nice day.


	8. Midnight Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay escapes from the party and remembers the first time George found him on the bench.

MIDNIGHT PANIC

—

Clay watches as George stumbles back, distancing himself from Clay and hesitating before disappearing into the sea of people. He reaches his hand out and takes quick steps forwards in an attempt to get to George, but retracts his movements almost immediately. He forcefully shuts his eyes and leans his head back, knowing he's fucked up this time.

Sweat trickles down his back as he navigates through the cluster of warm bodies, the scent of alcohol and cigarettes clogging his nostrils. His brain is cloudy and unaware of the person in front of him he crashes into her, spilling his drink all over her shirt. She shrieks and pulls the sticky and cold fabric away from her skin.

"What the fuck?"

"I'm so sorry," Clay interjects. His breath picks up and it's getting slightly hard for him to breathe. A guy about his height emerges from the crowd and steps in front of the girl, eying her soaked shirt.

"What's going on?"  
"I'm really sorry I wasn't watching-"  
"Yeah, no shit you weren't watching where you were going," The guy cuts him off and nudges Clay's shoulder aggressively.

"There's booze in my bra," the girl whines. Her boyfriend ignores her and stares Clay down.  
"Are we gonna have a problem here?"

"No," Clay reassures, he takes steps backwards and heads towards the front door, avoiding the several eyes on him as he exits the house. He starts walking and doesn't stop until he's reached the gates of the college.

The sky is nearly pitch-black and his breath forms puffs of mist that evaporate into the cool air as he trudges through the grounds, struggling to make it back to his dorm. His heart pounds out of his chest, aching as his throat seems to tighten. He grasps his neck.

Spotting the bench under the oak tree, he runs over to it, dropping onto the damp wood. A sense of panic rises in his body and alarms sound in his brain as his muscles tense. He can't seem to move.

He knows he's gone too far, and despite George's withdrawal, he can tell that George is interested. He has to be. The way he had looked at Clay as they gazed up at the clouds, fondly meeting each other's eyes. The way George's cheeks had flushed, and the evident glistening of lust that glazed over his sombre brown eyes. He recognized the salacious look that George had given him when they were intoxicated as it's the same look he has purposely been giving George, wondering if he is receiving the hints. Clay thought that pushing his buttons would make him snap, but maybe he had overestimated how resilient Geroge is.

He thought that George had wanted it, but as Clay's hand had snaked around George's waist, he could feel him hesitate and back off. Clay cringes as the memory replays in his head. He gets lost in his thoughts and tears fall from his eyes. He brings his knees to his chest and buries his head in his hands. He clenches his jaw. The panic has not subsided yet and he still struggles to keep his composure.

His anxiety attacks have worsened ever since he's moved away from Florida, and he had hoped that they would become less frequent as time progresses, though in this moment he realizes that isn't going to happen. He refrains from discussing it with people merely because he believes it's embarrassing. He desperately wants to share it with George, share everything with George, though he knows that if he opens up about everything he's been holding back, George won't look at him the same.

As Clay's body sinks deeper into the wooden bench beneath the oak tree, his mind travels back to the first night George had found him on the bench.

—

He'd awoken in a cold sweat, his skin dirty with fear-induced perspiration. Wiping his palms on his bedsheets he tore them off of him and stumbled over to his bathroom. He washed his face with cold water but it still didn't shake the panic away. He could feel and hear his heartbeat in his ears and the rhythm got progressively faster and faster until he found it hard to breathe. his eyes glazed over and he stripped his sweatshirt off of him and replaced it with a loose t-shirt.

He checked his phone. His alarm was set to go off in less than half an hour which means his panic attack had worked as an annoyingly accurate clock. Despite it being relatively cool in his dorm his body felt to be on fire, his skin burning at the gentlest touch. Clay snatched his bag, shoving a sweater in it just in case, and hurried out of his room in only a t-shirt and jeans, unfit for the weather outside. He looked around manically and spotted a singular bench under a tree that had begun to shed its leaves for the winter. He passed out on it, leaning his head back and slouching over.

Why hadn't the attack happened at night like it usually does? Now he had to walk into his lecture looking like a complete and utter mess. The frigid air cooled his body temperature only slightly, making him shiver despite still feeling like his body was trapped in a house fire. Tears had begun to leak from his eyes without him knowing and they froze onto his eyelashes and began to pool. He sat in insufferable agony.

Across the minuscule park in the centre of the grounds, a boy emerged from a residence hall and Clay made quick eye contact with him. The boy froze and a moment later jogged over to him. His brown hair blew gently in the wind and his cheeks were stained a light pink.

"I'm George," the boy stumbled out.  
"I'm Clay," he responded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it's so short :/ this isn't meant to be a full-fledged book.  
> Btw kudos are much appreciated!


End file.
